Lucky Comb
by larrrrrrystylinson
Summary: Kendall is curious about the story behind James's lucky comb and goes looking for the story. Pretty much a bit of angst ending in fluffy fluff. ... I'm bad at summaries.


**Hey. So, this is my first BTR fanfic. It's not too amazingly great, but I dun know, I wanted to post it. xD **

**Disclaimer: I own the boys.**_ Well. I wish I did._

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><p>"Where is my lucky comb?" James growled in annoyance, opening every drawer in the bathroom and rummaging through each before slamming it back shut. After searching in the small room for five minutes, James stormed angrily from the room, closing the door behind him with a loud thud. When he looked up he noticed his best friend of ten years(and crush of four years, but that wasn't important) sitting at the breakfast bar and staring at him with a smug look, one eyebrow raised expectantly. "Kendall?"<p>

"James?" he retorted, clasping his hands together. "What's wrong, my dear friend?"

The tone the boy was using was too knowing—too entertained and too full-of-it for James to believe he was being genuine. "Kendall!" he yelled angrily, rushing at the counter, reaching to grab the boy's hands. The blond jumped off the chair nimbly, though, out of his reach and smirked.

"Yes?"

James huffed, stomping around the counter to the shorter boy, towering over the confident figure. "Where _is_ it?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," he told him innocently, his green eyes widening like Katie's when she was trying to appear adorably.

James clenched both of his fists at his sides and snapped his eyes shut, letting a long, slow breath out of his nostrils in attempt to calm himself. Kendall just grinned at him until his eyes opened back up, and then the innocent look was replaced onto his face. "_Where?_"

"I'll make you a deal," he began. "I'll let you know where it is—" James dropped his shoulders at this point, returning to his normal posture in relief. "—_if_ you tell me why it's your 'lucky comb.' You've had that thing since before I met you and you _still_ haven't told me—"

The taller boy's previous too-tall posture returned, intimidating Kendall enough to make his voice drop down a volume level until James grabbed fistfuls of his shirt in both of his hands. He shoved him against the wall forcefully and stepped nearer so every part of their bodies were pressed together. Despite his anger, James couldn't help the shiver that went down his spine at the intimacy. "Stop," he pleaded, still forcefully however, "and just tell me!"

"No!" Kendall barked, shoving James away from him. "You treat that damn thing like it's your life and have a panic attack every time it's not in your reach! What is _with_ you and that stupid comb?"

"It's not a 'stupid comb!'"

"_Yes_ it is! Unless you give me a reason, that's all it will _ever_ be! And I'm starting to think that's all it ever was!"

James felt his eye well up and attempted to blink the tears away from his eyes. He stepped back from Kendall and shook his head. "If it's not back in my sight by the time I get back, someone is getting hurt," he muttered dangerously, turning on his heel.

"James—!"

"Stay the hell away from me!" he screamed as he paced towards the door, throwing it open and then closed.

* * *

><p>"Hey dad," he murmured into the phone softly. "I know you won't get this, but I just… needed to talk to you, you know?"<p>

Around him, people were walking by him without sparing the broken boy a second thought—they had places to go, people to see. But he didn't. He wasn't going home. He wasn't going to see his idiotic best friends.

"Do—do you remember that one time?" he asked the phone weakly. "Do you remember when you heard me sing? For the first time."

* * *

><p>"—<em>hold on to that feeeeeelin'!" James's four year old self sang along with his dad's favorite CD. <em>

"_James?" _

_His voice stammered and he ran over to the stereo and fumbled around with it, accidentally knocking it off the table it was rested on. His eyes widened comically at it, and he stared at it before looking up at his father standing in the door way. "I'm sorry!" he started wailing as he sobbed, rushing over to cling to the man's leg. "Mommy left it on for me while she went outside! I didn't mean to break it! I didn't! I'm sorry—" _

"_Hey, bud," his father chuckled, "it's alright. Do you like singing?" _

"_Yes!" James exclaimed immediately, happy his dad wasn't in fact angry with him. _

"_You're good at it, too, aren't you?" _

"_I am?" he asked meekly—he was surprised. His dad had never approved of much about him. He hadn't been to any of the little boy's tee-ball games, nor his soccer games—he was always 'too busy' to show up at one. The recent interest of pee-wee hockey wasn't in his father's interest either, and nor were James's academics such as his kindergarten spelling bee that he had won, nor his perfect amateur grades. _

"_You are," he nodded proudly. "Sing me more," he prompted. _

_Little James set off into another round of singing, singing out as loud as his young lungs would let him, absolutely glowing at all of his dad's praises. _

_And thus sparked the flame to the only similarity one was able to see between the father and son. _

_His father was a Broadway actor—that's how he and Brooke managed to meet. The young lady had been working make-up for a performance he was in and they hit it off over the two weeks of performances. _

_For his fifth birthday, he finally got a physical present from his father—not just an expensive party, not just a card that he could hardly read, not just a fancy dinner that his parents arranged that consisted of food that the young boy found to be rather gross—because really, where was the hot dog he had wished for with his birthday cake candles? _

_But on the fifth year when he opened his card, a long black comb slid out of the card before he could manage to even flip the cover open. He grabbed it and looked at it with curiosity, and his father knelt down next to him. "That's my lucky comb," his father explained. "I used it to prepare for my first Broadway audition, I used it the day I met your mother, I used it the day I married your mother, and I used it the day you were born. So far it's brought me the best things in my life. Hopefully it can do the same for you." _

_James stared at it, intrigued. He had seen the comb before—it had always rested just out of his reach on one of the glass shelves in his parents' room, and he had never touched it up until that moment. _

"_It'll take you far," his dad promised. "Use it when you're famous and singing for all of your fans on stage." _

_He looked up at his dad with a wide, thousand watt smile and nodded feverously. "I'll use it to win the hockey game this weekend!" _

_His dad's face fell, but James didn't mind—the two never got along when something besides singing was brought up—but the issue was dissolved as soon as they started to belt out the lyrics to some song that both he and his father loved. _

"_Just remember that it'll help you with anything—it has for me."_

* * *

><p>"I miss that—and I'm sorry I screwed that up between us," he whimpered into the phone. "You'd be proud of me, you know? If you bothered to pick up your phone, you'd be so <em>proud<em>. But you probably don't even know this number—I've gotten a new phone since I came here and I know how much you hate voicemail.

"You were right, though. That comb has brought me everything," he smiled. "I'm famous because of it. You always told me that I could be—always said you hoped I would be. I did it for you, dad. But you were wrong about something—I _am_ good looking. Do you remember saying that? When I got that black eye and swollen lip just before you left. _Bruises heal_ you know. There wasn't any reason a hockey fight was going to mess me up forever. I've got a scar—quite a few actually… But they add to my good looks—make me tough."

He sighed and looked around. "The comb hasn't brought me two somethings, actually," he admitted. "It hasn't brought me you and it hasn't brought me… Dad—there's this… person. You know how the lucky comb helped you get Mom? It's almost having the opposite effect for me, Dad. Do you remember Kendall? Kendall can't stand it because I'm so attached to it. But it's the one part of you that stayed when the rest of you left."

Biting down on his lip hard, James fought the tears. "I'm sorry you thought hockey ruined my face—that I couldn't be famous because of it. You thought it made me ugly. Bruises and cuts aren't ugly. Mom always promised me that. Maybe it was because you had given her so many when you left. Because, let's face it, bruises and cuts make you stronger. Dealing it out though? It makes you weaker, Dad. And then you ran. You ran, you sent her the divorce papers, and you're ignoring my calls. Well, more people know my names than yours. I've been on more stages than you. And it's all thanks to you."

* * *

><p>"Have you seen James?" Kendall asked Camille hurriedly. "He's still not back!"<p>

"Back from when?" the girl asked, pulling herself out of her script. She had come to realize when she could practice around the boys and when matters were serious. The desperation in the blonde's voice was very serious.

"_Last night_," he whined, panicked.

"Jesus, Kendall!" she exclaimed, jumping up from her seat to back hand his shoulder. "What did you do?"

"I just hid his lucky comb—I just wanted to know what was so special about it—"

She back handed him again, much harder this time. "Then why didn't you just _ask_ him?"

Kendall stared at her, opening and closing his mouth, looking for a proper answer. Camille huffed and stormed past him and out of the pool area. After another second of hesitation Kendall charged after her. It was only seven AM, but he had woken up early, planning to wake James up and apologize. When his friend wasn't in the room, though, Kendall had gone through something that he expected was very similar to what a heart attack was like. Maybe it was a panic attack. But either way he felt as if he couldn't breathe when there was _no_ sign of his best friend.

"How long has it been?" Camille asked when he caught up.

"Twelve, maybe thirteen hours—"

"Oh my _god_, Kendall! And you didn't try looking for him? Don't you have some petty little crush on him, too?"

"He told me not to look for him! And it is _not_ petty!" he growled. No—his feelings for the pretty boy were anything _but_ petty—they were stronger than ever since they came to LA. Sure, he _had_ at one point had a petty little crush on _Jo_, but then he would see James flirting with some other girl and not even when Jo was around Jett did Kendall feel even slightly as hurt as he did when he saw James being his charming self. And now Jo was gone, and he had even called her up to explain that he was sorry, but he was pretty sure he was falling in love with James and he thought he might have used to her to dilute those feelings. She had taken it all wonderfully—well, she had taken it better than he had assumed she was going to.

"You've done _nothing_ about it—"

"Because it's not exactly easy to do something when you've got feelings for your best friend!"

"Where could he have stayed for the night?" she asked, changing the subject quickly.

Kendall shrugged. "_Anywhere_," he sighed.

"Gustavo's? Kelly's? The studio? A dark alley way?"

"I don't _know_!" he growled. "You check Gustavo's and Kelly's. I'll check the studio and anywhere else I think to look."

After leaving the studio around half after eight(a half an hour was spent pleading with a janitor to let him in), Kendall wandered down the street, looking every which way. He had already called James fifteen times—maybe more—and he had sent him countless texts.

It took another half hour of searching for Kendall to give up—James would come home eventually, and all that the blonde boy needed right now was to _relax_. He headed over to the ice rink, nodding a greeting to the lady at the desk before entering the locker room. They boys came here often enough that they had just _bought_ a locker and left their belongings in it, so they didn't have to lug it back and forth.

Because of the early hour, no one else was at the rink yet—people normally started coming in at noon but the place had to remain open for skating classes that took place in a separate rink.

Kendall walked down the aisle until he reached the bay their locker was in and turned the corner easily, nearly falling back in shock when he noticed a body laid on the floor with a jersey bundled up as a pillow, another pulled over his clothes, and a warm blanket covering his lower half.

"_James!_" he exhaled in relief, rushing over and shaking the boy's shoulder, eager to wake him up and apologize. He hesitated when he saw the puffiness that surrounded his eyes—it was obvious he had been crying. "_Wake up_, please," he murmured, shoving the body harder. An incoherent mumble came from the brunette and Kendall smiled. He pulled the comb from his back pocket and pressed it into James's limp hand. "Open your eyes and look," he told him.

James did so, quite groggily might Kendall add, and sat up quickly when he saw the object. He clutched it tightly to his chest, closing his eyes as he tried not to cry.

"Look, I'm sorry," Kendall sighed. "I didn't think it really meant that much to you. I was just joking—I just wanted to know the story behind it. It's one thing I don't know about you," he explained, brushing the bangs out of James's face with his fingertips. "I want to know everything there is to know about you—that's what people do with the person they love."

James froze, holding his breath. Kendall noticed, but instead of stopping, caressed the boy's face in his hands, brushing his thumbs over the skin beneath his eyes. This made the hazel eyes snap open and Kendall smiled softly.

"I guess I should have respected that you didn't want to tell me," he amended.

"My dad gave it to me," James whispered so quietly Kendall almost thought he imagined it. "It was his lucky comb. It's the only birthday present I ever got from him."

And suddenly, Kendall felt like an ass. "Jamie—" he whispered, his hand thrown over his gaping mouth. "I'm _so_ sorry—"

"It's fine," James told him, shaking his head. "I was over reacting—"

"I was being an idiot!"

James stopped him by placing his hand over Kendall's hand that remained on his cheek and squeezing it softly. "Listen," he demanded lightly. "It probably never made sense to you why I've always been so obsessed with an inanimate object. I don't blame your curiosity. Singing, fame, looks, the comb… It's _all_ I have left of my dad."

Kendall looked down and shut his eyes. He was the only one who knew about the reality of James's bitter ending with his dad. The others still believe that they were in contact—James felt pathetic to admit to the others that his own father hadn't been able to stand him and had abandoned him after destroying each little piece of his self-confidence. Well, Kendall hadn't known the full story, but he had known that James and his dad hadn't spoken since he up and left, and that when he had up and left, it was a nasty one, with blood and nasty word wounds.

James sighed and set the comb down on the floor gently before setting into the story of woe, managing to keep his tears from falling. Kendall should have known long ago but it was never too late for James to confide in him.

"I'm sorry," he whimpered. His shoulder slumped forwards and he fell into James's chest.

This was how it usually was—James always comforting Kendall even if it was James who was the one hurting. But Kendall couldn't _stand_ a hurting James and in turn, his heart ached whenever anything was paining the other boy. And now that it was _his_ fault… He hated himself right now.

"What were you saying before?" James asked quietly after almost fifteen minutes. "You know—wanting to know everything about the person you love… And you wanting to know everything about me?"

Kendall blushed and pulled away. "Can't get out of that one, eh?" he asked quietly, scratching the back of his neck.

"No," James chuckled.

"I've… kind of liked you since you broke up with Carly—when you cried on my shoulder the night before you did."

"That was three years ago!"

"So?" Kendall muttered. "You make it kind of hard not to love you in my defense."

"In my defense I've had feelings longer than you have," he smirked. "Four years going on five." Kendall snapped his head up in surprise, staring at the smug look on James's face.

"Serio—"

He didn't get to finish the word, though, as James quickly cut him off with a chaste kiss, pulling back after just a moment—he had just wanted Kendall to believe him and a simple kiss could do that.

"Seriously," he nodded once.

Kendall smiled, shaking his head and tackling James onto the floor, hovering over him with an evil smirk. "Then you won't mind me doing something like this—"

With that, Kendal dropped down so he was pressed up against the buffer boy's chest, their noses brushing slightly as he closed the distance and connected their lips passionately.

James let out a short moan when Kendall traced his tongue along his bottom lip, begging for entrance. The two laid there on the floor of the locker room for a long while enveloped in one another, ignoring everything else that could be going on.

And then, at almost eleven, after an hour and a half of making out, murmuring sweet nothings to one another, and spilling secrets the other wasn't aware of yet, Kendall's phone rang.

It was in the middle of one of their kissing sessions, and the blonde pulled away with a groan, sitting up so he was straddling the other boy's waist. "What?"

"Where the hell are you?" Camille shouted into the phone, causing him to flinch away from the mobile.

"Just with James," he shrugged nonchalantly.

"You promised to tell me if you found him!"

Kendall frowned. "We… got caught up…"

James smirked and hooked a finger on Kendall's collar and tugged him back down. Kendall followed his pull and settled back onto his chest with a smile to the boy and a quick motion telling him 'one moment.'

James didn't _want_ to wait one moment, though. He leaned up from the floor and connected his lips to the pulse point in Kendall's neck, sucking at it and tracing it with his tongue.

"Damnit," he gasped into the phone. His breath hitched and he exhaled shakily, gasping mid breath when James nipped his teeth at the sensitive spot.

"Kendall?" Camille asked worriedly. "Come on, what's going on?"

"N—nothing," he hissed, trying to pull away. James was persistent, though, blowing cool air onto the damp spot on Kendall's neck before pulling him back down and attacking the spot once again. "I—I'll, uhm, see you—_shit!_—later!"

He ended the call and sat back up, glaring down at James. "She's going to think we're trying to kill one another!"

"So?"

He sighed. "Wanna play a round before others get here?"

"Round of what?" James asked as he waggled his eyebrows suggestively.

Kendall rolled his eyes and stood up in attempt to cover the blush covering his cheeks. "Hockey."

"Whoever wins gets their way tonight—"

"James!" Kendall huffed, blushing openly this time.

The other boy smirked and stood up. "Fine," he relented, "but you're my boyfriend now—you have to wear my jersey and I have to wear yours."

* * *

><p>"Where have you guys <em>been<em>?" Ms. Knight shouted when they finally walked through the doors. "Camille explained everything but she had her audition at eleven and we haven't heard from _any of you!_"

"Just playing some hockey," James smiled innocently, combing through his hair with his comb. Kendall smiled and nodded, rushing off to his room to avoid the curious glances of his two other band mates and his mother and sister. James followed suit, chasing after his secret boyfriend quickly.

"They know!" Kendall cried, terrified.

"No they don't," the taller boy promised, stroking the back of his head. Something caught his eye and he pulled away, examining it more closely. "But they might soon… How do you feel about wearing make-up?"

Kendall's thoughts traveled back to the locker room and he squeaked in realization. "You _didn't_!" he gasped, throwing his hand over the purple bruise on his neck.

"Okay, I didn't," James agreed, "you must've hit yourself with your hockey stick."

"Seriously?" Carlos asked from outside the room. "How did you manage to hit yourself _there_ with the stick?"

"I—uh—"

Logan raised an eyebrow expectantly.

"James?" Kendall called softly to the boy next to him.

"Yeah?"

"They know."

"I know."

Carlos looked at Logan's knowing smirk and Kendall and James's terrified faces and frowned. "Know what?"

* * *

><p><strong>This was actually really great to write because I was curious about why everything was so important to James- fame, looks, and the comb. I think this is pretty realistic- maybe it's just me but. d: shrug; **

**Anyways. **

**Yeah. **

**Review if you'd like. (: **


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